


Last Stop: This Town

by irolltwenties (Shenanigans)



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Gen, I don't know dude, I guess my first contribution to this fandom will be a multi part, Pre-Canon, and I figure what the hell, and all the other pairings, and i need to post the start before I chicken out, future alex/michael, it's just a thing that happened, just have to get past my sudden love for the EVANS, kill me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 05:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18243464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/irolltwenties
Summary: Someone asked what it would have been like if Michael had gone home with the Evans and I couldn't let it go.





	1. Chapter 1

1.  
Phil Evans bought twenty acres just outside of Roswell the day his wife brought home a sway backed mule with a severe case of hoof rot. He was a tall quiet man with broad square palms and a wife who fit tidily between his knees. He liked the view from the couch, the way Ann’s blond hair would spill over his thigh as she crooned to the seven dogs that were littered over the family room when they watched the newest episode of The West Wing. (It was his favorite and she secretly was just as involved, but made loud noises about the way she spoiled him). They had a chicken coop, a barn with two goats, one mule, and a peacock. The orange tabby, Master Chewbacca Smushyface, loved him, but the fickle black tom, Cat, made a point of walking over his face at 4am every morning to curl next to where Ann slept. 

He would roll out of bed, yawn tugging at his face as he shot the smug one eyed ugly pug- aptly named Monster- a glare. The basset hound, Mabel, followed him, the two yellow labs barely moving in the pre dawn light. He built a four bedroom house, thinking that eventually they would fill it with children and not just animals. His family was large, sprawling across New Mexico with some outliers in California. Ann was an only child. They’d decided to have three. Two boys and one girl sandwiched between them. He figured they’d get Ann’s smile and charm, but he did wonder if they inherited her big heart whether there would be enough room to fit the myriad strays that would inevitably follow. This was his routine. This was his life. He made coffee and enjoyed the way the sky lightened at the edges before blooming into the spectacular colors of a New Mexico sunrise while he plowed through a second helping of cereal. The desert sage fading from the inkblot dots to softer gray green that stippled the red rocks. He loved the mesa.

One miscarriage and Ann faded just a little, crying wrapped in a blanket and all he could do was hold her and love her through it as best he could. Acts of service- feeding the beginnings of their horde, cooking breakfast, going to work, contacting the community college to have them assign a substitute for the French Literature class she taught. Two miscarriages and he held her sharp chin in his hands and kissed her when she would let him, trying to make it clear that she was *perfect*. 

Four and he couldn’t watch the light that was cracking like thin ice inside of her. He talked to the Doctor, a frank woman with warm eyes that held no real hope. He talked to their Pastor, a stout Lutheran man with thinning hair and a soft voice. He talked to his bartender, Mimi, a beautiful woman with wild hair who clasped his hand and told him with an unerring certainty that he would be a father. She patted his cheek and pushed him a beer and there was a... moment-

“You need to look at this.” Ann set the local paper in front of him, folded and smudged a little like she’d been clutching it in her hands. There was another article about the swarming of mosquitos, but that wasn’t the point. “They found these children just- just _wandering_ , Phil.”

Ann’s eyes always seemed just a little too large for her face, her nose strong and jaw just as sharp. Her smile was warm and kind, off kilter and it still made his heart tighten. He’d always been a hopeless romantic that way. In love from the first time he’d laid eyes on her, is what he’d tell people at parties. “She hit me like a ton of bricks.” 

“That was Jared, dear.” 

“So you keep saying. I blame the concussion.”

He’d been playing shirts and skins football at UNM, a little high and a little drunk on the lawn between the dormitories- the sandy ground leaving yellow red smears on his sneakers when she’d walked past, blond hair teased into a high haughty pony tail and a well worn mickey mouse shirt tucked into the pale washed denim that clung high over her hips. He’d blinked at her, watching the way her smile went from bright and open to a look of concern- right before he was tackled and split his head open. They officially met three hours later when he found her waiting in the hospital lobby after he got stitches. She’d driven him home in a baby blue volvo station wagon- ostensibly to make sure he didn’t slip into a coma from his concussion. He’d followed her pretty much everywhere ever since.

“Wandering?” he questioned, blinking as he realized he would probably need to get readers soon as he tilted his head back, eyes locked on the little blonde girl in the middle, taking in the boys like book ends. “Where are their parents?”

Ann’s mouth thinned and he realized it was a rhetorical question. He picked up the phone and called Jim. 

They were in so far over their heads that he was pretty sure they were drowning. The little girl, Isobel, was sitting next to the dark haired boy, Max, as the third boy drew on the walls with a fevered sort of obsession. Ann covered her mouth and glanced at Phil. Phil blew out a breath, watching the quick scrawl of red marker. He motioned to her and she collected the two that were huddled together with a quick overly bright smile, tossing Phil a look over her shoulder as they slipped out of the room. Phil exhaled, turning in a slow circle to take in the overlapping pictures, drawn over and over in a long repetitious chain as high as the small boy could reach. His curly hair tangling in the back and smears of ink on his fingertips. There was a desperation to the way the boys shoulders were moving, his breaths coming fast and tight like he’d been running. Phil moved slowly, the same way he approached the dogs by the side of the highway when Ann called him to come to the rescue. He kept his breathing even, glancing back at where the door shut and moving to sit in the small chairs surrounding a low round table in the center of the room. He stretched his legs out, trying to keep the entirety of his six foot frame small and unassuming.

Phil Evans watched the boy, quiet and patient as he drew. He knew in the other room the two other kids were safe with Ann. He knew she was talking to them, telling them about the rooms they had made for them, the room they had made in their lives. She was already half in love and Phil was alone with this scared little boy and obsession. He waited and felt his chest tighten, biting his bottom lip and nodding once. Phil Evans was going to make sure nothing scared this boy again.

“He’s so troubled,” Ann was brushing her hair, watching him in the mirror over their bathroom sink while Phil stripped out of his button up. She had the crease between her eyebrows, concern and an over abundance of love. “I don’t know if we can-”

“If you’re about to say that we can’t help him-”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Phillip.” She turned, gesturing at him with her hairbrush. “He needs therapy. He needs dedicated care. He needs so much and I don’t know-” She paused, searching for the words. “Wouldn’t he be better off with a family that could give him their entire focus? A family that could make him the most important part of their life? He deserves a fighting chance, love. He’s so young.”

“If we can get Yardstick back up and moving after the vet amputated his leg.” Phil took a step forward, taking the hairbrush from her and hooking his hand around her waist to tug her against his chest. “That idiot dog that everyone thought wouldn’t make it? The one that wandered in the gully for three days with a trap on his leg because he wouldn’t let anyone get near him? Remember how everyone said he was a lost cause? They were going to shoot him and someone I know- the bravest woman, the woman who loves so deeply she can’t help it- told them she would shoot them if they tried it.” He smiled against her hair and held her, rocking in the tick tock rhythm of his heartbeat. “We can’t just leave him there.”

“What if we fail him?” And there it was, that huge heart of hers so worried about everyone else. 

“It would be worse if we never even tried.” He tilted her chin up and held her eyes. "We always did want three." 

They had the same conversation every night for four days- taking turns being afraid and holding the other up. Two months later, after several supervised visits, test weekends, and countless consultations with their case worker, the three siblings came home. 

2.  
The idea of children and the reality of children are two very different things, Phil Evans was forced to realize. The children had been with them for almost a year and every day was a new and startling adventure in _I didn’t even know that was a possibility of things that could go wrong_. He’d walked into the kitchen to find Isobel sobbing surrounded by corn pops on the tile while Max busily tried to mop up a broken gallon of milk that was heaving its contents in large gasps. Ann was grim jawed and wielding a pair of orange handled scissors while Michael sat stiff backed and teary eyed on a high bar stool as she cut out a snarled tangle from the lopsided mess of his curls. Phil blinked, taking a breath as he watched the cats scramble from their respective perches to beat the dogs to the milk cereal mixture that was starting to puddle and make a break for the slight downhill that would carry it into the living room. The noise was intense and fracturing, a clatter of paws and claws, hiccoughing snotty coughs and frantic sobs. 

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?” Ann’s voice was deceptively calm, laced with a sweetness that felt as forced as the winning smile she threw in his direction. The matt of hair fell to the ground and she slapped the scissors back down on the island counter top.

“Um.” He waded forward, grabbing Yardstick by the back of his collar and tugging the fat three legged German shepherd mix from the delicious mess of sweetened cereal as he also scooped Monster with one hand to toss over the dog gate to the mud room. 

“Even the darkest night will end,” Ann quoted grimly, pushing her bangs back with her forearm. “And the sun will rise.”

“Victor Hugo before 10 am?” 

“It’s been a morning?”

“Noted.” He’d wrangled the two yellow labs to join their pack in the mudroom. He gave up on getting the cats and focused on grabbing the dish towel from it’s hanger on the front of the dishwasher and joining Max in his one man attempt to curb the chaos of Isobel in a full fledged fit. The social worker had decided that those two must be twins by the way they interacted and Michael must be a younger sibling.

“Like Irish Twins,” Phil had grinned, palming the top of Michael’s head and smiling down at the solemn wide eyed boy.

“Triplets,” Ann corrected from where she’d been running light fingers through the thistle white tousle of Isobel’s hair. Max was holding his sister’s hand, solid and watching them all talk. “Irish triplets.” The three still hadn’t spoken, but Phil and Ann were convinced that the twins had their own language that the younger boy must have learned over their time Before.

He scooped Isobel up and plopped her on the counter next to the scissors, taking a half step away before rethinking and snagging them to hand back to Ann. Isobel’s pink overalls were damp with milk and he filed that away into the running and constant checklist in his head to make sure everyone was still breathing and had all their parts as he scooped Max up to deposit him next to his sister. Michael reached over and hopped onto the counter, three sets of kids’ sneakers bouncing heels off the veneer as Phil leaned over to kiss his wife and start scooping the soggy cereal into the trash.

“I need to find out what to do with his curls, Phil.” Ann sounded exasperated and exhausted. “I always thought I’d have to learn girl hair, braids and fancy twists.” She picked up the lock of hair and frowned at it. “Curls, Phil.” 

“Good thing you have a friend at the salon,” he reminded her gently, not looking up from his task.

“I think they’ve melted my brain,” Ann stated, picking the stool up to tuck it back under the high counter by the bay window off of their dine in.

“I think anyone would feel that way with a kid, let alone three.”

He stood, wringing the towel into the sink and made a face at the kids where they were sitting, Ann keeping a careful eye that they didn’t start randomly flinging themselves into danger. It was her constant task now- vigilance against danger. She hovered and fretted, watching and sending out silent prayers as she counted heads wherever they went as a family. She’d told him one night in quiet words in the dark that she was sure she’d lose one. That she’d forget and they’d feel like she’d abandoned them. That she would fuck it all up so badly they’d hate her. She worried and loved, determined to learn motherhood. She’d sit in the room where Isobel slept, finding that all three kids had drifted there during the night and curled up like puppies in the pink coverlet. Marshmellow, the fat Catahoola hound flopped over Max’s feet. He knew that Ann would watch them, curled into her blanket and so desperately in love with them. She took to love with a single minded focus. Phil felt lost sometimes, watching from the doorway before slipping to her side to fit her between his knees. He’d hold her as she fell, tumbling right after her.

“Cat, no.” Max stated, voice firm and eyebrows in a mimic of Ann’s when she admonished the feline. Cat continued to lap at the milk filled grout as Ann and Phil both turned to look at him. He sighed, world weary. “He doesn’t listen.”

Ann’s startled intake of breath was followed quickly by Isobel scrubbing her small palm over her eyes and frowning. “He ate my cereal, Mom.” She pouted spectacularly, eyes welling up and nose crinkling. “He did it on purpose.”

“Son of a-” Phil started, cutting himself off as he watched the children.

“Bitch.” Michael contributed, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, proud that he’d finished the sentence.

Ann looked at Phil, mouth dropped open on a wordless exclamation. Phil started to laugh, startled and amazed as he covered his mouth. 

“I think we just leveled up, Babe.”

“Oh God.”

3.

The kids were turning eleven soon and Phil was sitting in his fifth parent teacher emergency meeting over their youngest, Michael. He’d been attending these semi regularly since they’d enrolled the kids in public school. He’d gotten used to the smell of elementary school hallways and would evaluate the teacher quickly by the effort they put into decorating their classrooms. The first one had been a panic inducing moment of shit we fucked up the kid before it became clear that Michael was exactly what they’d already known he would be- deeply needing more help than the two of them could offer him. They’d started moving him into therapy, one botched attempt after another as the boy would sit silent for the entire hour- stubborn and oddly charismatic when he smiled as they picked him up. He was loud, somehow managing to learn to play piano before Isobel but refusing to play at any of the talent shows. He was quiet, tucking against Phil’s side when they’d watched ET for the first time. He’d spend hours in the yard at night, staring up at the sky with Marsh-mellow to lean against. Michael was part of the trio and somehow also apart from it. Isobel would cry and Max would try to cheer her up while Michael would just roll his eyes like some long suffering adult before purposefully tripping to make her snort, laugh cracking through.

Michael would act out. Michael would withdraw. He would have fits at night that raged, books flying and thumping as he felt everything so deeply. Max would wait it out, just outside the door while Isobel rolled her eyes and plopped down to slide a battered copy of Calvin and Hobbes under door. The three of them would camp in the backyard, shapes and shadows moving against the canvas as they talked in the dark. Sometimes, Ann would come home and Michael’s hair would be in puff ball pigtails, nails painted pretty shades of pink, while Iz studiously applied eyeliner to his eyes. Max was laying on the ground, blush dark stripes across his cheekbones and an odd shade of dark raisin matte lipstick twisting on his lips. Ann took Isobel to the department store to sit with the girls there, learning from them instead of making her brother’s guinea pigs. Michael would go quiet on the playground, watching the other kids like he just didn’t understand them even as Max made friends with the Ortecho girl and Iz held court on the swings. 

Phil had bought him a whole pack of fancy markers, precise pens, and graph paper for Christmas. Michael had stared at him wet eyed that morning while Iz and Max tore into their presents. Phil was an architect; he understood that the empty space was the most important part of building something new.

This classroom was slightly more grown up than the last, but the desks were small and he stared down at it. Ann folded into one easily and Phil moved to stand beside her, eyeing the small seat designed for 10 and 11 year olds before just sighing and crossing his arms over his chest. The teacher was a slight woman in her mid to late thirties with that problematic face that seemed like she could both be a barista and a drill sergeant. She wore bright red frames and kept her dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. He could feel Ann’s tension as the woman looked at both of them, tilting her head like she was trying to figure out where to start.

“What’d he do this time?” Phil finally asked, waving his hand to get her to continue. They were used to this by now. Michael was complicated. Max was a little chubby, nose in a book as he followed in his mother’s footsteps into literature. He enjoyed going to the library, laying face down in the aisle as he devoured book after book like he was making up for lost time. Isobel had turned into a small socialite- gathering and motivating the entire grade to follow her lead on fashion choices and trends she would pull from teenBeat. She covered her room in pictures of horses and heartthrobs. Ann loved it, a co-conspirator finally.

Michael was different. He hadn’t let them cut his hair since the stylist had needed to shave his head to fix the disaster of Ann’s flawed attempt to tame his curls. He was vibrant and dramatic, following Phil into the garage to talk about everything he’d ever thought as he worked with him to rebuild the engine on an old Chevy truck that Phil had locked up sometime in ‘92. Michael was quiet and sometimes Phil was sure that he could never hug that kid tight enough to show him he belonged here.

The woman, Mrs Jepson, frowned like she was trying to find the right words. “I think Michael might be gifted.” 

Phil blinked in tandem with Ann. “Say what?”

The woman spread her hands and then huffed an annoyed sound, pushing to her feet and walking around the desk to lean against the corner, looking between them. “I think he might be gifted,” she repeated. “He’s-”

“He’s failing most of his classes,” Ann interjected. “They were talking about holding him back last year.” His wife looked confused, turning to glance between Phil and Mrs Jepson. “He doesn’t do his homework with his siblings?”

The woman nodded, gesturing like this was in agreement with what she’d just said. “He’s bored.”

“Bored?” Phil repeated, wondering momentarily if he’d manage to do more than be startled in the next few minutes.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed the way he’s constantly drawing,” Michael’s teacher turned and flipped open a folder that was laying on her desktop. “He’s not just doodling. I mean, he *is*, but it’s more than that. Look at the margins.”

Phil took the page, holding it for a moment before blowing out a long breath. “That’s...”

“Yeah, I took it to my friend Doug- he teaches AP Physics- and he asked me where I’d gotten these calculations.” She turned to Ann. “Michael’s been casually working with Kepler’s laws of motion while I’m trying to talk to him about Social Studies. That’s college level work.” She smiled, content with the bomb she’d just set off in their lives. “Your son isn’t slow. He might be a genius.”

“Well fuck.” 

4.

“Dad,” Max started, coming to stand at the end of the couch with his hand tucking nervously into his pockets. 

“Yes,” Phil drawled, narrowing his eyes at their oldest. Max was 12 now, coltish and unsure of where his feet needed to go. He was ranging into being a teenager. Phil simply shook his head when Ann goggled at the size of the boy’s shoes, starting to explode into sneakers like schooner ships around the tiled floors of their house. Max was a good kid, that blush of chubbiness starting to melt into the height he’d pull if his growing pains were any indication. Phil remembered the ache of it, rubbing at his shins in sympathy.

“Can we go camping this weekend?”

“By we, I assume you mean the three of you?” Phil glanced to the hallway, catching the brief flicker of movement as both Isobel and Michael ducked back behind the wall where they were listening. “Come on out you two, I know you put him up to this.”

“We just want to have some time to ourselves,” Michael started, smile charming as he spread his hands out, eyes widening. “You know we don’t get much since I started going to RISD.” Michael’s puppy dog expression was only outdone by Isobel’s. His curls were cut shorter than normal. Ann had been surprised when Michael had asked to go to the salon for a haircut, but she hadn’t been in the library earlier that day to witness.

Phil had been waiting in the truck, windows open and enjoying the reprieve of April weather in Roswell. It was sunny and seventy with a nice breeze that carried the smell of mesquite and asphalt. He’d been watching the boys playing soccer on the public park next to the library when he heard his son’s voice, carrying easily across the flat ground. 

“What did you say?”

Another boy, taller and broader in the shoulders shrugged. “I’m sorry, man, I thought you were a girl.” 

Michael hadn’t let anyone cut his hair since they’d shaved his head after the debacle of Ann attempting to cut the mats out of his curls. He’d learned how to cowash, air dry, and never brush his curls. “Why the-” the hurt in Michael’s voice was obvious to Phil who was already starting to unbuckle, ready to go kick the shit out of that kid. 

“Shut up, Kyle,” another boy said, smacking the boy on the arm and shoving him towards where the other boys were playing soccer. “I’m sorry about him, he was dropped on his head.” The smaller boy smiled crookedly at Michael and mimed a head injury before turning and following. 

“You shut up, Alex. Go back to your _girlfriend_.”

“Funny. You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.” He started running. “My Dad is going to kill me if we’re late. Come on.”

Phil was out of the truck and watching Michael watch the two boys scamper through the fence and out onto the field with a whoop. The smaller boy turned, tossing Michael a wave and a crooked grin before visibly tensing at a man’s muffled bark of an order and starting to sprint across the field. Phil watched the way Michael managed a half wave back, neck gone red and face blotchy with embarrassment and anger even as he pulled at the hair tie keeping his long brown curls back in a half ponytail. “You okay, Mi-”

“Yeah, Whatever. Let’s go.” Michael had climbed silently into the passenger seat and closed his eyes until they made it home. 

Now there was a pale line at the back of his neck that he rubbed self consciously even as Isobel stepped forward. “Yeah, come on Dad. It’ll be good for us. Bonding. Desert time.” She widened her eyes and turned up the charm.

“No way.”

“What-”  
“Dad!”  
“Plea-”

“No way. Jim called and said there was a rise in the drifter population right now. Not to mention that it’s the Javelina rutting season.” He shook his head, pointing at each of them in turn. “Not a chance I’m letting you three wander out and get mauled by some stupid desert hog. Even if you are practically a coyote, Michael.” He shook his head, pointing at Isobel with raised eyebrows when she opened her mouth to protest. “You guys can camp in the backyard like you have been doing forever. You can go down and get milkshakes at the Crash Down Cafe. You can kick and scream and curse my name, but I am your Dad and I have no problem being the bad guy in this moment.”

“Why are you a bad guy?” Ann walked in, bowl of popcorn tucked against her stomach as she looked between him and their children. “Can I be a bad guy too? I could be a witch!” She widened her eyes and smiled brightly.

“Yes, love. Whatever you want.” He reached to take a handful and tilted his head where the three were thinking about mutiny. 

“I’ve been practicing my evil laugh.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect.” He leaned up as she leaned down, kissing her around a smile at the gagging noises behind him. “I told them they couldn’t go camping this weekend.”

“Oh definitely not.” Ann glanced up at them as she sank next to him on the couch, bowl of popcorn moving seamlessly to his lap. “There’s-”

“Javelinas.” “Indigents.” Michael and Max answered at the same time.

“Aliens.” Ann finished with a bright smile. “This is Roswell after all.”

5.

After the sixth fuse blew, Phil started calling contractors. Something was seriously wrong with the wiring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are moments that define their lives and moments that divide their lives. Moments that divide a family into two versions- who they were before and who they will be. 
> 
> AU caused by someone asking what would have happened if Michael had gone home with the Evans. I couldn't let it go.

6.

Ann barely caught Max in time by the back of his shirt, watching it pull taut as he nearly walked into the wall, spine of his book brushing the stucco. “Sweetheart,” she started, fond smile tilting over her lips as he glanced back with a hazy look of confusion. He surfaced out of books like waking from an especially good dream and Ann could only feel that helpless stutter of her heart at her _son_.

“I know,” Max muttered, course correcting and starting to walk again. 

“Walking and reading is a dangerous hobby!” Ann called after him, statement echoed in Max’s voice by rote, trailing off as he got lost in the literature again, padding past the kitchen and down the hall.

“He’s going to break his nose,” Phil stated from where he was leaning against the counter, sipping a cup of coffee. He was a tall lean man with broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist. He was starting to flesh out finally, a little bit of pudge around his middle that Ann couldn’t help but want to curl her hands around. She tilted her head, watching him. Unconsciously handsome, salt and pepper stubble matching the graying at his temples. He was sun touched dark hair and light eyes crisped tan like cookies left just a bit too long in the oven. 

“He’s going to get too big to catch,” Ann agreed, turning to pluck her wine glass from the counter and join him, standing hip to hip.

“He already is,” Phil replied, shaking his head. Michael skidded into view, tossing them both a quick smile as he tugged open the fridge, stacking lunch meats, cheese, yesterday’s leftover meatloaf, two tamales, and full jar of mayo in one hand while plucking the bread from the counter-top. He juggled it all as he tucked a plate under his arm.

“You’re going to drop something,” Ann told him.

“Naw,” he answered, ducking to bite into an apple and back out of the kitchen with his haul tucked against his chest. The rest of his reply muffled and indistinct behind the fruit.

“Where is he going?” Ann blinked, turning to Phil before kicking off the counter. “Michael Evans where are you going with all of that food?” Her voice echoed down the hall, met with a garbled reply and the slam of the back door. “What just happened?”

“Piracy?”

She almost choked on the sip of wine she’d taken, smacking him fondly with the back of her hand. He grinned at her, dimple flickering in his left cheek when he smiled. “Accurate. Sad, but accurate.” She looked out the window over the sink, watching Michael dump his haul on the table near the pool they’d installed when the kids turned 10. Isobel made a horrified face at him, headphones bright pink and overly large where she was shuffling through her iPod. Michael took the apple out of his mouth, grinning brightly at her before starting to create some monstrous concoction of a sandwich. He moved with the absent minded clumsiness of a pre-teen boy, still figuring out just where his arms and legs actually were today. The glass going over was inevitable, she thought briefly, blinking when it appeared to hover for a moment. It was so quick that she had to rub her eyes, blinking at where Michael had caught the neon green plastic, hand wet from the soda that spilled. 

Phil turned at the confused noise she made, glancing back over his shoulder to where Isobel was yelling at her little brother for getting Coke on her sandals. “Everything okay?”

Ann hummed, wetting her lips and looking down at the wine. “Yeah, just seeing things again.” She leaned forward, rapping her ring on the glass to catch their attention and shake a finger at the commotion.

“Little green men?” Phil laughed at his own joke, waggling his eyebrows at her until she cut him off with a quick kiss.

7.

“I think we should tell them,” Michael said, twisting his mouth as he picked a bit of sagebrush from the tread of his trainer before shrugging loosely and glancing at Max. The tent was feeling smaller lately, but they still piled in to the backyard every chance they got on weekends. “I mean, if you blow another fuse Dad might just burn the house down out of frustration.”

Max had the decency to flush, neck going blotchy as he hid his face behind his hands. “I know, man. I have the worst superpower ever.”

“At least you don’t throw furniture around with your brain every time you’re mad.” Michael leaned over, patting Max’s shoulder before shooting Isobel a significant glance.

“What?” She blinked, startling back to paying attention before catching the pointed head tilt Michael gave her and pulled herself up. “Oh, right. Yeah, that’s _terrible_.” She widened her eyes at the caustic look Max threw her.

“Your sympathy is underwhelming.”

Isobel shrugged, smiling. “Not all of us are upset about having powers.” She pouted slightly. “We could totally be at Kate Long’s boy girl party tonight. _Everyone_ is there. That’s a reason to be upset.” 

“How’s the shoplifting coming?” Max interrupted with a copy of the disapproving face Dad made at them, voice cracking. Michael tried not to be a little jealous of how his brother’s voice went deeper.

Isobel tossed her hair over her shoulder, flopping dramatically to lean her head against Michael’s thigh and stretch her feet across the tent to wiggle her toes against Max’s shin. “It’s not _technically_ shoplifting if they just _give_ it to me when I ask.” She widened her eyes, smile utterly saccharine and guileless.

“ _Technically_.” Michael agreed, reaching down to snag a lock of her hair and start braiding it the way she’d forced him to learn when they were younger, hordes of plastic ponies with tails that needed constant attention. Isobel poked Max in the thigh again, impatient until her brother dropped a hand to start rubbing her foot. She hummed happily, staring up at the mesh ceiling of the tent, content in the pile of blankets and sleeping bags with the lantern buzzing faintly from where it was hooked into the loop near the front zipper. 

They sat in silence for a minute, Michael finishing the braid and watching it unravel half way once he let go. “I’m scared that they’re going to find out the wrong way and they won’t want us anymore.”

He could feel Max’s eyes on him and caught the tilt of Isobel’s head against his thigh as he picked the braid up, tightening it with a quick tug before starting the plait again. “Or that, you know, my powers are going to freak out and hurt Mom.” He paused, exhaling, voice gone quiet as the words rushed out of him like they’d piled up at the front of his tongue and were tripping over themselves to be heard. “What if they don’t want us? I mean, I know you guys have heard them arguing in the kitchen at night.”

“They’re not that quiet,” Max agreed.

“They love us,” Isobel stated, jaw squaring as she reached back and curled her fingers around Michael’s wrist.

“Can they?” Michael asked, finally looking down at her, eyes a little wet and he sniffed once, swiping his forearm over his face before shrugging and staring up at the domed ceiling, focusing on where the poles crossed. “I mean, they don’t know what we are. What if our real parents are out there looking for us? What if we were supposed to stay put out at Foster Ranch? What if they tell the government and-”

He’s thinking about the time before he’d been transferred out of the public schools when they’d all walked in a line from the elementary parking lot, hand in hand like a living daisy chain, to the UFO emporium for a school trip. Mom had been there, chaperoning and laughing as she watched the fake alien autopsy on the small screen. It had crackled in the small room, speakers breaking from years of use and smelling like warm bodies and old carpet. The three of them had huddled together, watching the people on screen in old timey black and white talk about the scare of invading aliens. Michael had watched, skin growing cold as they discussed the medical dissection. He’d looked around, terrified as the other kids in their class laughed, pointing and shrieking as the small movie continued. 

The third grade had been divided up into several different classes, Max and Iz were in a different class from Michael. He’d been put in a classroom down the hall with a woman who spoke so slowly it made his skin crawl. This was the first time the entire grade had all been in the same place. He was surrounded by kids he didn’t know and he’d plastered himself to his siblings. He held on to Isobel’s hand, starting to shake as his breathing went fast. “Mom.” He’d started, voice soft as he tried to find her blond hair, everyone gone monochromatic in the reflected light. “Mom!” 

A few of the kids around them started looking over, confusion smearing their smiles halfway to gone. “You okay?” Max tugged at his arm, concerned as Michael started to try and get to his feet. 

Michael yanked his arm away, rubbing a hand over the short fuzz of his hair before turning in a quick circle, nearly tripping over his feet. “MOM!” He started climbing down the large carpeted steps that served as the seats in the small amphitheater style room. He turned right, lit brightly by the projector beam, blinded as he started reaching, finding a wall and following it at a near run. He slammed into another kid who’d been walking the other way, heads cracking together loudly and dropping in a tangle. 

He couldn’t help it. He started crying, scared and fast breaths as he tried to untangle from the other boy. The kid looked at him, eyes almost liquid in the dark with a small hand holding his forehead. He had a black eye and was missing one of his front teeth- the other half grown in. Michael sniffled, rolling and pushing, hand against the boy’s stomach as he tried to get to his feet. 

“M’sorry,” Michael muttered, sniffling as the other boy sat up, closing one eye around the grimace and shook his head. 

“I’m gonna tell.” The boy gave him a flat look, eyebrows a straight line across his forehead under the precise military style haircut. Michael reached out, clapping a hand over the boy’s mouth, eyes gone wide in another wave of panic. 

“No you can’t!” He whispered, moving close and tight to make sure the other boy heard. “You can’t tell. It’s a secret.” The boy licked his palm and Michael yelped, startled momentarily out of his panic and glared at the boy. “Gross.”

“You’re gross.”

“Michael?” His Mom’s voice broke him out of the staring match he was engaged in, pausing to look up at her and remembering that he was panicked and afraid. He reached for her even as she bent to haul him up, tucking his head under her chin. “Did you two get in a fight?” 

“No,” the littler boy said, sniffing once and pushing to his feet. “He ran into me when I was coming back from the latrine, Ma'am.”

“Okay,” his Mom hefted Michael higher on her hip before bending to touch two fingers to the boy’s chin. “That’s quite the black eye,” she said softly. “You’re Bina Manes youngest?”

“Yes ma’am.” He pulled his chin away and Michael watched from where he was clinging. “I fell off my bike.” He said it quickly and Michael remembers the way his mother had paused just a moment before he’d tugged at her necklace, reminding her of his terror.

“If they turn us in,” he started, unable to finish. He shrugged, tossing the braid back down. 

“They would never,” Iz stated, Max nodding in agreement.

“Then we should tell them,” Michael said finally. “I don’t want to keep secrets anymore.”

Max sighed, grinding his teeth before setting his jaw in the way their Dad did when he’d made a decision for the whole family. He nodded once, pushing the hair that had flopped over his brow back and held out a hand. “Okay.”

Isobel looked between the two of them, wiggling her nose for a breath before putting her hand on top of Max’s. Then she looked up at Michael, expectant and warm. “You in, Mikey?”

“Hell yeah,” he whispered, voice gone tight as his throat closed around the way his chest felt hot and overfull. He put his hand on top of Iz’s, looking between them before he broke into a wild helpless smile- matched by the breathless laugh that Max managed even as Isobel wet her lips.

“Okay, so now that all the serious is done, I have to pee.” Isobel rolled, pushing up to stand in the most purposefully painful way possible, causing Michael to hiss and smack at her even as she shoved at his head. She stuffed her feet back into her sandals, hunkering to unzip the tent and duck out into the cooler night air- a gust puffing in to flutter Michael’s curls as he shivered and pulled his hoodie tighter. When she’d zipped it closed he slanted a sly look at Max, reaching to dig in his backpack and pull a half full bottle of nail polish remover from the front pocket. 

“No way!” Max looked around, wide eyed before turning the awed look on his brother. “Where did you get that?”

“Under Mom’s sink.” Michael nodded, grinning as he spun the cap with a practiced move, catching the top with his powers and floating it to bounce off of Max’s forehead. “She won’t notice.” He took a swig, hiding the face he wanted to make at the taste- like water from a plastic bottle that had been left too long in the hot New Mexico sun, melted a little and chemically waxy. It spread cold over his tongue, numbing for a brief second before tracing the line of his throat and crashing into his stomach where it spread with a delicate tingle. He grinned, handing the bottle to Max. His brother took a swig, making a face.

Michael had a moment of thrilled superiority before the scream ripped across the back of his skull, not out loud, not like the actual scream that cut off abruptly. This was the feel of Isobel scratching across their minds in sheer panic. It was also the moment seven howls went up from fifty yards away. Max beat Michael to the tent flap by breaths, ripping through and tumbling out into their backyard even as the motion activated lights at the house sparked on, flooding the yard with white light. The yellow labs, Frick and Frack, were in the lead, Yardstick a close loping second with the other four following just behind. Michael turned, seeing the threat in stark white light- he was old, filthy, and flinching back, dirty clothes and stained beard. 

“ISOBEL!” Max screamed, kicking up puffs of dirt as he ran. Michael didn’t think just flung out a hand, the pulse of power surging out of him and tossing the drifter back ten feet to slide across the property. He scrambled to a stop, wobbling as Max sprawled down to grab at their sister. He watched, frozen with fear as the man started to stand, knife flipping out.

“He’s got a knife!” He yelled, panic curling under his ribs going white hot when Yardstick sped past, hurling at the drifter with a feral sounding snarl. “No, stop!” The man screamed and there was a high pitched yelp that cut off suddenly. It all happened so fast that the gunshot seemed to come right on top, the man pitching back into the dirt, twitching once and wheezing a wet gurgle before going still. 

Max was moving, running towards Yardstick, the smaller shape where their dog was a vague shadow on the desert sand. Michael glanced back, still frozen in place and saw their Mom lower the rifle, eyes wide even as their Dad stumbled out with his Nokia. He whipped his head around when he heard Max yelling, full throated and desperate. 

“Max, what the fuck?” he managed as the other boy’s hands went red, glowing and filling the air with a prickling electrical charge and the smell of burning fur. He felt the moment it stretched too tight, snapping something and exploding the flood lights and Dad’s cell phone at the same time, dropping the back yard into flickering darkness. He blinked, shaking as Yardstick whined once, kicked his legs, and Max turned his head and puked into the dirt before stumbling to his feet. “What the fuck, Max! Did you just?”

Max nodded, full body tremors starting to run through his arms. 

“How’d you-?”

“I just suddenly knew I could.” Max turned to look at him and then past him, towards the house. Michael's eye were pulled back; he couldn’t stop staring at the man’s body, the dogs growling low in their chest, hackles raised as Yardstick limped back to nose at Isobel. “Is he dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you bring him back?”

“I don’t think it works that way.” Max reached over, grabbing his hand and Michael startled, turning to look where he was staring. Their parents were five feet away and for a moment Michael was sure they’d point the gun at him. Instead, their mother dropped the rifle and ran to them. Their father half a breath behind.

8.

“We have to call Jim,” Phil whispered, voice tucked low and careful as he stared across the space to where the body lay, the man’s smell filtering across the sand with the breeze.

“No,” Ann replied, tight and gruff, clutching her daughter to her and trying to gather all three of their children impossibly into her arms. “You saw what just happened.”

“I’m really not sure what I just saw.”

Ann’s jaw was sharp in the moonlight, strong nose fierce over high cheekbones. She shook her head, ducking to kiss Isobel’s hair and stare out at the slight ravine. “I shot him, Phil.” She looked back at him, eyes wide. “He was touching our girl. That’s what happened.”

“And the rest?” Phil managed, hissing it through clenched teeth. He shook his head, the images of Max’s glowing hands and the way Michael had seemed to fling the man with a gesture of his hands. “We should call Jim. He told us about the drifters.”

“No.” Again, Ann blew out a breath, visibly disheveled and shaking her head slightly. “They’ll take them away from us.”

“What are we going to do?”

Michael ducked out of Ann’s arms, curls fluttering in the breeze as he held a hand out, the wind seeming to pick up as the sand started to shift. Phil could only stare for a moment before standing, reaching to put a hand on his arm. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Michael’s voice had gone that raspy tight that Phil knew meant he was crying. “I’m digging a freaking grave.”

“Son, no,” Phil managed, tugging on the boy’s arm to break his concentration and turn him to look at him. “You don’t have to do that. We’ll figure this out, we just need to get you all inside where it’s safe.”

Michael’s chin crumbled slightly and Phil had only a second to react when the boy crashed into his arms like he’d done a few times as a small child. Ann stared at him, willing him to understand as Isobel wrapped her arms around her neck and Max tucked against her side. Phil Evans looked at his family and knew that the decision had already been made. They'd made it the moment they'd looked at those three pictures in the newspaper. “Take them inside, love,” he told Ann, hefting Michael up and starting back to the house. He’d have to make the call from the wireless landline. 

9.

Phil sat across the kitchen table from Sheriff Valenti, cup of coffee between his palms. The refrigerator behind them was covered in gold star tests with Michael’s name on them, a Polaroid of the three sitting on the edge of the pool- Iz in a pink one piece with a horizontal silver stripe, Max in his blue swim trunks that matched his brother's, and Michael wearing stripes of sunscreen and a winning smile. There was a grocery list held with a magnet of an orange tabby that Isobel had gotten Ann two Christmases back and a mimeograph print of the school schedule for both Roswell High and the Roswell Independent School District where they’d found a private school for Michael.

The ceiling was flickering red and blue and back to red in an unending cycle as the sheriff’s department started setting up halogen floods to light up the crime scene. “It was self defense, Jim.”

“I believe you, Phil.” Jim Valenti wasn’t a tall man, but he was charismatic in a way that filled rooms. He was swarthy with thick black hair he kept carefully tousled, a white brimmed cowboy hat on the table next to the black leather bound notepad he was writing in. He ducked and caught Phil’s eyes, bringing his attention back to the conversation between them. “I just need to ask the questions to make sure the case is air tight.”

“Okay. Shoot.” Phil grimaced at his own word choice, glancing back to the hallway at the sound of a door closing. Ann had been with the kids, tucking them all into the same bed like they’d done when they first brought them home.

“Do you know why your daughter was outside?” Jim tilted his head, voice mild and quiet in the kitchen.

“I think she was trying to sneak out to go to that party she was talking about earlier.”

“Kate Long’s boy girl party.” Ann nodded, reaching to take the coffee from him and sipping once before sitting down. She pulled her legs up one at a time to wrap an arm around her knees. She perched on chairs when she was cold or worried. Tonight was no exception.

“What happened next?”

“The dogs started panicking, you know how they get when the coyotes are having their little disco’s out on the prairie, it was like that. Just barking and losing their minds until they managed to break through the dog door.”

“That’s when we knew something was really wrong. They’ll just keep us up half the night barking at the coyotes, but this was different.” Ann swallowed, nodding and handing Phil back the mug. He turned to sip from the other rim like always. 

“The floods lit up and that’s when I heard her screaming.” He blew out a breath, rubbing at his eyes. “God, Jim, nothing like it. Scared the shit out of me. Just her voice and I’d never heard her so scared.” He thumbed at his eyes, mouth thinning and stared at the Sheriff. “I didn’t think to grab the rifle, but thank God Ann did. Not much use my phone would have done.”

Ann reached over to place her hand on his shoulder, thumb sweeping a soothing arc. “I was just closer, Phil.”

He shrugged and turned back to Jim. “She shot him. The man had a knife. Kil-” he cut off, realizing that there was no way to prove he’d killed Yardstick. The Shepherd mix had posted himself outside the children’s door, head up and ears pricked. “He could have killed her, Jim.”

“And the tent outside?”

The colored lights abruptly shut off, leaving just the white stripes from the floods painting across the popcorn ceiling. He and Ann both looked over at the windows. He could see the outline of the tent in the predawn, just a black bubble among the scrub and mesquite out past the split rail they used to section the wilder parts of their acreage from the paver patio and in-ground pool. Ann answered first, quicker than he was.

“The kids wanted to go camping out by the turquoise mines for their birthday. We told them no after you let us know about the drifter problems. I didn’t think it was that bad- I didn’t think they’d come here. Into our _home_.” She covered her mouth, tears starting to well as her jaw worked. “How are they ever going to feel safe, Jim?”

Sheriff Valenti exhaled, shaking his head and reaching to pat her knee. “It’s going to just take time, Ann. They’re good kids. They’ll come around.” He looked at Phil then, dark eyes somber. “I’ll do my best to keep this as quiet as I possibly can. Y’all have been through enough tonight.”

“You have no-”  
“Thank you, Jim.” Phil glance over. Ann was looking at him, steady and calm behind the tear tracks in her mascara. If anyone could will it to be truth, it was her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://irolltwenties.tumblr.com/) if you want to flail with me. Cause that would be rad.


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